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Chapter 4: All Honeymoons End
Following her roped rapine the day prior, Megan did her best to return to normal life. After a death-like slumber, she donned her long black dress (to hide the telltale marks from the magiced ropes) and went about her day. Stiffly.
The incurable Elsa was back in her stocks, her feet pinned back, murphing for mercy from passers-by. Megan, understandably in a good mood, gave her quite a tickle. "No carrots for you today," the little witch beamed. "Just a shared laugh between us." Her clever fingers whirled across the helpless soles, tormenting the poor girl no end.
Later, she stopped at the marketplace to pick up a basket of vegetables. Ms. Hedlane, the frayed-looking farmer, complained as always.
"...the world's changed, dearie," she sniffed. "Back in my day, a girl wasn't safe wandering the lanes at night. There was always the likelihood of having a sack thrown over yer 'ed, ropes tossed around yer limbs, to be carried off an ravished in a dark field under the moon." A sigh. "Aye, those were the days."
"I could put in a word with Ms. Sasha," Megan suggested. "Next time I see her."
"Nobody's seen those sister-witches of yours. They've plum vanished. Inta thin air mostlikes."
"They'll come back," Megan replied, eyeing the disgruntled farmwoman. The little witch considered the favor of a possible kidnapping; a little slap and tickle under the stars would do the woman good. The problem was that her prey outweighed Megan by at least three stone. It was not so much a matter of desire as... physics.
Still, everyone deserved a good ravishing. Just thinking back to the events of yesterday, the ropes, the bed, the attentions of Woody, all made the petite magic-user's knees go weak.
"Its not just me," the older woman noted. "There are a lot of communities that depended on those gals. Oh, mind you and speaking frank, they were a contentious lot. But still, they helped us in many little ways."
"They'll be back," Megan repeated, collecting her purchases.
Wouldn't they?
She paused on the way home to use her magic to unstop a sink drain. From the cupboard came the muffled moans of the maid who'd thoughtlessly plugged it. Given the homeowner's ill temper, Megan figured the poor girl had more punishment in her future.
I wish it was me, Megan found herself thinking with a blush.
She desired the bite of the ropes. It was as sensation she couldn't get out of her mind.
Her little house was silent when she returned. She put away her purchases, tidied up. With evening falling outside, she cooked a small meal and ate it, looking down from her window at the lights of Sheepish. She washed her dishes and set them into the rack. Then she removed her clothing, slipped into a cotton nightdress and climbed into bed.
The ropes struck.
They whirled around her like a force of nature, slapping her wrists palm-to-palm, stitching their way up forearm to elbow, upper arm to shoulder, wrenching it all back with a tidy tug. A thick line flew up to capture a beam, its other end tentacling around her trim waist, lifting her over the foot of her bed. There sat her chair, coils of rope looped around the legs, ready to receive her. As soon as her small buttocks plunked into the seat, the ropes laced up around her body, effectively welding her to its framework. Before she could protest, a runaway ballgag popped into her mouth, its straps snapping shut.
And there she was.
Trapped in her nightie in the moonlight.
Which was fine by her. Down within the cotton folds, her pussy smoldered. Against the constricted cotton, her nipples thrust, desperately seeking attention. She waited for something obscene to be done to her, aching for it.
Woody floated over to her. She watched its approach with desperate desire. Her maiden's spring began to flow in anticipation.
But the head of the staff merely tapped upon one of Madam Johnston's books, one of the ones Megan had brought home with her.
Wags to Witches; twelve steppes to a moree magikal you!
She blinked at the inanimate shaft of wood. It paused, then nosed the book open to the first page. Before she could comprehend, another rope flew in, looping around her neck, slipping down around her knees. A rough tug and she was nearly face down against the open page. Only then did she realize; trussed completely, hunched painfully forward, there was nothing for her to do save read.
Steppe the first: In which the maiden who, being desirous of the gaining of witchecraft, approaches the mistresse. And the mistresse, for the goode of all concerned, should procure great quantitees of ropees, cordes, lanyardes, and lines. These shoulde be applied all about the apprentice's bodie, in the most uncomefortable and humiliating of fashiones. And so thus, bounde through the longg night shall the apprentice learn the passions and pain of the crafte...
Megan grunted in concern. All night? She looked peripherally to Woody, which bobbed a nod to her. All night.
And so she read to the midnight hour, learning the first steps of her craft. When she grew too tired to ingest any more, the lights dimed and Woody returned to its corner. And suddenly she felt very much alone, roped and abandoned for the long night. Comfort was simply impossible.
You wanted this, Megan told herself, her ass stiff, her back throbbing. You dreamed of this.
Truthfully, she wouldn't have traded if for anything.
And so her true training began. Every night the ropes would truss her up. Some nights she would be presented books to read, spells to learn. Other nights, she would be ramrodded into ecstasy by Woody's tip. Some nights would be both. Sometimes even simultaneously.
By day, she'd go about her business (with puffy eyes and stiff limbs). In the back of her mind, she wondered about her tutors. Who was actually controlling things here? She'd thrown the original spell to make things better and now she was being made into a true witch. But was the spell itself doing it? Or was there some essence of Madam Johnston, her presence in the magic she'd contributed into the staff? Or was this simply a manifestation of her own desire to become a witch, to use the magic to tie herself down for study sessions?
She couldn't say.
Across the spring and summer, her life was one of ragged pleasure. By night, the demanding ropes, the arcane books, Woody's glistening tip. By day, attempting to help every village from Sheepish to Salisbury, to cover for the missing coven. There was just so much to do. While the bustle gave her satisfaction, in the back of her mind she feared a difficulty she couldn't correct; an insect infestation, an early freeze. One witch with a narrow expertise simply couldn't cover this entire swath of Wiltshire countryside.
Some days the exhaustion proved too great. She'd wake to find herself tucked into her bed, her hands tied snuggly behind her, her feet together. She could do little to save lay in bed and rest. Woody would stand sentinel in the corner. Come evening, after being released for dinner, she would be trussed back into some severe tie, to continue her sensuous training.
She lay on her side in a patch of moonlight, her cotton shift stripped away, hogtied in spine-bending severity, her nipples throbbing from clothespins' kiss and her pussy glowing from Woody's recent attentions. She sighed over the top of her saliva-soaked gag.
How have I ever managed to become so lucky?
All honeymoons end.
Megan found herself looking over the late summer countryside, the sun warm on her shoulders, Woody present as a walking stick. From the summit of the hill, she could look out over Sheepish, out over the countryside to the ribbon of sea. Over towards Salisbury, the plume marking the progress of the 3:50 down train crawled across the landscape. It was very peaceful.
She weighed Woody in her hands, frowning.
It didn't take much energy to bind up a willing girl, to rope her open and helpless, to bring her pleasure. Just a sip. Nor did it take much to counterbalance her own abilities, to hold her knots in place while her own magic tried to unravel them. As for her training, that had mostly been her efforts, reading and memorizing Madam Johnston's books. But even so, Woody was drained. It had one last spell in it, one final effort. Then it would be a simple stick again.
She would miss him. It.
Really.
So many people depended on her, all these villages. And even if she could cover Sheepish, she didn't have the span of expertise a coven possessed. Too many things could go wrong.
She hadn't even kidnapped poor farmwoman Hedlane yet.
If only her sister witches hadn't vanished. She really needed...
She stopped. Blinked. Smiled. Nodded to herself. In an instant she was up and flying down the hill, her black skirt billowing out, her hair ribbon fluttering in the wind, Woody gripped to her side.
She made it to the Sheepish telegraph office before it closed for the day. It didn't take long to sent an advertisement to the London papers...
=< O >=
Four young girls stepped off the train onto the Salisbury platform, looking about with mild interest. One of them was beanpole tall and had purple hair. It wasn't dyed.
Megan approached them in the most theatrical manner, her black robes swirling as she appeared through a burst of engine steam. A traditional witch's hat graced her head, its tip flopping down. Her smile was genuine.
"Hi, girls. I'm Megan."
The newcomers introduced themselves, including Kate, the sullen purple-top. Megan nodded, casting a simple appraisal spell. They all had auras. They all had the touch.
The trip back to Sheepish wasn't posh. Actually, they rode in the back of a hay wagon that happened to be going their way. The others looked mildly put off. Kate sneered.
"So how long have you been a witch?"
"Since early spring," Megan beamed back.
"And you're an elder?"
"As old as they get around here. Look, here's the deal. I need witches. That's why I placed the advertisement..."
"Young Ladies with Unquantifiable Talents," a girl quoted.
"Exactly. From your correspondence, I gathered you all have skills and attributes that set you apart." She glanced at the purple hair. "Very apart. So I'll train the four of you, give you each a cottage a short distance off, and our coven will keep Wiltshire out of trouble."
She chatted more about their training, their duties and responsibilities, and the democratic vision she had for the coven. Eventually they reached her small cottage where they de-wagoned, brushing away the hay.
"It's not much," Kate noted upon entry, brushing back a purple bang.
"It's home," Megan grinned. "I know you've had a long day on the train, but we might as well get started." With a suitably wicked grin, she lowered Woody and discharged the last of its magic.
It was as if twenty or more invisible Megans leapt from hiding and attacked the surprised acolytes, their spectral presences marked by the coils of rope that flew through the air. The young women tumbled to the floor in their snarls of cordage. For every line they held off, a dozen snaked in, slipping around slender wrists, banding around delicate ankles. Their indignant squeals were silenced by gags snapped over their protesting lips. In short order, their arms had been pulled behind their backs and trussed tightly, their legs locked together, and bands of cruel and expertly applied rope encompassed their slender bodies.
Then, when the four were secured, they were hauled by unseen forces to their feet. Unresistable powers dragged them, with the rasp of heals across floorboards, to the four posts of the bed. They were pressed against the upright iron shafts, locked in place by the final assault of whirling devil-rope, each girl facing a different point of the compass.
Megan, grinning like a cat, strolled around her forest of captive beauty, basking in the expressions of confusion, discomfort and humiliation that flickered across the gag-clenched faces. The expressions moved in unison towards wondering blushes as the full extent of their upright bondage, specifically the tight knotty crotch ropes and the invasive breast bondage, became apparent. They hardly dared to wiggle, scarcely risked to breath, for every minute movement brought a frictioning pressure of knowing cordage.
Megan sighed in contentment. They all looked so delicious done up like that, with their dresses rucked up and their arms so neatly stowed away. Conscious of the desperate eyes that followed her, she readied herself for bed, slipping off her clothing and neatly folding it up. She considered donning the white cotton shift but decided against it; sleeping in the buff in such surroundings felt very witchy, keeping in the scene. So she padded to her bed like an innocent fairy amid the captives she'd guiled, giving each a goodnight gag-kiss. She slipped into her sheets with Woody at her side. The girls didn't need to know it was nothing but a prop now.
She lay in the darkness, enjoying the sounds of crickets and agitated, suffering femininity, thinking of the future. Even with her fearsome display of the black arts, she would have her hands full with this lot, especially the headstrong (and head-purpled) Kate. She would have to tie them up by hand every night. Perhaps she would make one of the girls a temporary deputy, to help with the trussing and to warm her bed. It could work.
Oh, there would be troubles, no doubt. Training four girls at once would be an ordeal. But even if things got out of hand, the very fact that she couldn't be bound would work in her favor. There might be a rebellion or two but soon they would realize how pointless such efforts were.
She hugged the staff between her pert breasts, missing its influence in her life. True, she had hours and hours of maiden-trussing to look forward to. But would she ever feel the bite of the rope again, the heady helplessness as she lay trussed up and wide-eyed, ready and waiting for looming molestation? She hoped so. Perhaps she could convince these girls, when they'd graduated her tutorage, to recharge Woody. If not, maybe she could truss them up into a set of freely-rotating harnesses, ones she could easily spin. The thought of the four lashed up as some sort of living, breast-heaving dynamo gave her a whimsical smile.
Regardless of what it would take, soon this area would have five witches, trained and loving and true. Things would get better for everyone. Her initial spell had indeed worked.
She settled deeper into her soft bed, lulled by the muffled moans of the weary girls. Then she rolled over once, then again, purposely clockwise. Using her tiny magical charge, she pointed a finger towards Kate's back and cast. The girl shuddered and moaned as her crotch rope notched a bit tighter.
And with that, Megan drifted into the sweetness of sleep.
The End
29.08.09